


Night Night, little ones.

by asheanex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Other, are not fun, basically night stuff, its like my brain gets its kicks from killing me emotionaly, night terrors.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:31:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asheanex/pseuds/asheanex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is basically nothing, pay no attention to this.<br/>This is only here because when I lay down at night I need something to chase the shadows away, so I write. This is badly written and un checked, so obviously it is nothing important.<br/>As I said Pay no heed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Night, little ones.

Please... Will you marry me.  
The sentence blasted through Mycroft's head so fast it temporarly left him a stone lighter as his brain flew out his ear. He stood riged, stood infront of the man who he had been more than happy to give up his whole being for.  
When Mycroft was younger, he had no interest in marriage or any of the things that bewitched the mind of the men and woman his age, his direct orders from his mother and father being to carry on with his career in the services of Britain (not that they knew what he actually did) and ignore such jovalities as love. Of course, he was expected to drop everything and rush to his brothers aid, as per his instructions.  
Then, when his parents died ( Cancer - Mother / Bullet to the forehead as he begged for forgivness - Father )  
Mycroft actually had a chance at dropping everything and getting into in depth parts of the Secret Services. A dream of his since he was a child, the ability to vannish while still protecting behind the country he was proud to serve. After seven years completly cut off from his old life, he ammerged to find his life was cold.   
Frozen.  
Lost.  
Dead.  
And he loved every second of it.  
The feeling that he could pull the reigns of a whole country pulled at his mind, his being and every fiber of it desperate to control and mannipulate... It was addictive. The brim of societly, phah, he was the umbrella sticking out of the blasted Margherita! He was so high up... he couldn't see the ground. Now, Mycroft would never have willingly abandoned his remaining family, but the desire and desperation to hold this new feeling, this feeling of being needed on a massive scale, the feeling of knowing that should he stop, countries would literaly sink in on itself. By now, Mycroft could be dubbed crazed, nothing obvious of course, but. a small half there glint in the blue grey eyes that told of darker sights seen, of pitch contacts and of a basic, almost animalistic need for survival. He also had many fingers in a vast veriaty of governmental pies, the invisible web of secrecy and treachery creating a cacoon around himself. The silver threads that his brain used to create links between everything were being pulled tight, in a vain attempt to summon up so many facts at once.   
Just when the cucoon was about to seal closed forever, brain dying and leaving the once happy man a monster of power and control, Mycroft heard a scream. He clawed at the now solid walls of his mind, a desperation to discover the voice fuelling his destruction of his head. Blood, or maybe tears, possibly both, gripped at his fingernails as he tried to repeatedly bash his way out of the white wall, a singular name relpeated around in his head.  
Sherlock.  
He didn't know why his brain, a desperate instrument trying to calm its bonds, tried to tell him such a word, but to repeat it with such regularity, it must be important. Either a minuet or a minellia later, Mycroft had to give up on trying to bash his way out. His fingers were bloodied, his proud figure now a skelital representation of what he used to be. Yelling in anguish, he lay on his side, he curled up in the darkness,. The cacoon he himself had built, his inbuilt distrust of anyone who wasnt himself forming and growing in on himself... A brutal punnishment for such a nieve beliefe, a man currupted by his own power. Were he a weaker man, he would have done away with himself, the jagged points of his now scabbed brain clawing at his skull.  
Mycroft please.  
He opened his eyes suddenly. A feeling he had long thought lost in the maze he named his soul. He wanted to help. Suddenly he was landing sure and percise attacks on one spot of the webbed pattered wall, the small crack getting bigger and bigger with each new attack. The wall then split into a thousand peices, littering his entire being in white, snow flake objects.  
He woke by a hospital bed, and in hand with Sherlock. The sight before him should have shocked him and scared him completely, but he just smiled warmly. He felxed his fingers in his brother limp grasp, and took hold of the other in his other hand. Sherlock, what have you done? He knew that the track marks up and down his skelital look alike were drugs, his figure, not unlike Mycrofts own, was pale and thin.  
Hello?  
Mycroft looked at the door to the room to see a young officer, a pleasent blend of brown and grey in his hair. that complimented his chocolate eyes...  
Chocolate eyes which were now waiting for an answer.  
Yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, as I said, you needn't have read that, but you did, so Here is to you


End file.
